


The Dossier

by LyraNgalia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, References to Irene Adler/Original Female Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2236011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler has always known that the British Government kept a dossier on her. But what happens when she reads said dossier, and discovers things are not as they seem?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dossier

It was an uneventful morning in 221B Baker Street. Or, as uneventful a morning as could be had when one not-actually-dead dominatrix was in residence, having let herself in the night before by some method that was decidedly not the front door. Sherlock Holmes had not yet figured out what that method was that had allowed the Woman into the flat, but he was certain he would in a few moments.

 

Not that he had been surprised to see her, wrapped up in his blue dressing gown (her dressing gown, not that he'd admit to it), her legs thrown over the arm of his chair. Her perfume had given her away while he was two steps from the door. The smell of vanilla and sandalwood that lingered on her skin was unforgettable.

 

Much like the rest of her.

 

But it was morning and she was, once again, in his chair, the hem of his dressing gown falling open to reveal a long, pale leg. He found his eye drawn to it, to the play of light against her skin, to the minute miniscule changes that played out on her skin since the last time he'd seen her. There were clues there, on her skin, clues as to where she had been the last few months, clues to how she'd made her way into the flat. But not enough clues, not enough _data_ from just the sweep of her leg and the curve of her hip.

 

He needed more data. But to have it would require seeing more of her, and as much as he wanted to, Sherlock knew that to do so would be giving in, would be to admit he didn't _know_ , to admit that she had fooled him, confused him, confounded him again.

 

She was very good at that, the Woman. And it made her absolutely insufferable when she knew it.

 

But then, it was why he enjoyed having her here, because she confounded him. Very few people could.

 

"You're staring, Mr. Holmes," she said, her voice distracted as she flipped through a manila file she'd liberated from his piles of case files, the haphazard detritus of his livelihood.

 

"I am not," he answered immediately, peevishly, pointedly looking up from where his eyes had been focused to look her in the face. Or what would have been her face, if she hadn't been engrossed in the file... His brow furrowed as he made out the letters on the file's tab, and he smirked. "Indulging in a little narcissism, aren't we, Woman?" he remarked. "Reading your own dossier. Surely you knew someone at the MOD who told you what was in Mycroft's file about you."

 

The papers rustled as she steadied them, and she lowered the file just enough to study him from over the top. "I've always known the basics. I was curious about the finer details." Her eyes crinkled as she smirked, as she closed the file and tossed it haphazardly back on the pile from which she'd liberated it. The careless gesture sent a stack of paper samples showering to the floor but neither she nor Sherlock noticed. "In this case, your brother's information is only as good as those he gets it from. Grossly inaccurate." She arched an eyebrow at him and shifted her position in his chair, tucking her legs under her.

 

"As much as I loathe my brother and his disdain for field work, even I have to admit his conclusions are usually sound," Sherlock said, though a note of intrigue coloured his voice as his eyes went from her to the discarded dossier to her again. 'Except for Pakistan' hung unspoken between them as he continued, "What gross inaccuracies did the British Government commit in slandering your character, Miss Adler?"

 

Irene laughed at that, tossing her head back, her dark hair gleaming richly in the sunlight filtering through the window. "The 'political scandals', for one," she informed him. "Did someone decide to give it to some clerk on his first day to write up? 'Caught in a compromising position with Lord Scavandish.' _Hardly_. He was a client. A dreadfully dull one. I cut him loose after a session, but his wife was a charming woman."

 

She paused and gave Sherlock a slow, satisfied smile, which he found himself returning automatically before he caught himself. At that point he rolled his eyes and waved a hand at her, 'get on with it'. "And you knew what she liked, I presume."

 

She glared half-heartedly at him, but the fact that he had simply thrown that at her in response meant that he had _not_ figured it out. "Obviously. And she was eager to talk. Loved to babble under the whip. Not that it even took that, she was so starved for company she would have told me everything about her husband's work and his affairs if I'd simply come for tea. But then I do like my work."

 

He snorted, and she continued, gesturing at the folder. "Some reporter caught a photograph of my car leaving after some time with her. Would have been obvious if anyone'd taken a look, of course. He hardly carried himself as if he had a standing appointment. Or even one that night. But the Daily Mail took it and ran, ran him all the way out of Parliament, last I heard. Looks like even your brother didn't look hard enough to realize it was the wife."

 

She laughed, and he found himself smirking, as he added, "It's always the wife." And despite himself, Sherlock found his curiosity baited. Damnable Woman. It would be infuriating how she did it if he didn't enjoy how much her company stimulated him. "And the other political scandal? Don't tell me that was the wife as well."

 

Irene shook her head and stretched in the chair, the motion causing the gown to fall off her pale shoulder. "The daughter. Neglected and in university, her father was aiming for a position in the House of Commons and too busy to give her the time of day. So she tried to be scandalous. Engaged my services, let the family chauffeur know where she was going, made sure to take the family car to my flat. Painfully obvious. Thought it would bring Daddy running up to demand what she was doing. He decided to throw her to the wolves instead. Was gearing up to crucify his own daughter in public. Crusade against indecency."

 

Sherlock's brow furrowed, and Irene rose from his chair to pad on bare feet to stand in front of the window, enjoying the feel of London's sun. "Hardly a political scandal of the sort to end a career," he said.

 

"More the sort to catapult him to prominence within certain parties," she agreed. She glanced at him over her shoulder, a gleam in her eyes. "I could hardly let him do _that_ to a poor young thing like her. Sweet girl. Dreadfully boring and terrible decision making abilities, but hardly one to misbehave. And I do loathe being used by politicians to make a point."

 

Realization began to dawn on Sherlock's face and his eyes lit up as the puzzle pieces fell into place. He grinned and gave her an approving look. "So you engineered the scandal to fall on him rather than on her. Clever."

 

Her smile deepened, and even in the bright light near the window, her pupils dilated as she met his gaze. He stepped around his chair to approach her. "Obvious, isn't it, once you know where to look," she purred. "Your brother's informants didn't."

 

Sherlock laughed, and reached up to brush a lock of her hair back, tucking it behind her ear. His voice was lower by about half an octave when he spoke again. "Well, he did say he wished his lot were half as good as you. And that's a compliment, Woman."

 

Irene found herself leaning into the radiant warmth of his hand near her face, and she turned her head just far enough to touch her lips to his fingers, to catch the pad of his index finger in her mouth, nipping lightly at the sensitive pad. He breathed in sharply, and his eyes bore down into hers, his pupils dilating wide and dark. “His compliments I can do without,” she retorted. “I think we have far more fun pulling this one over him.”


End file.
